


Delirium

by Amuse_me



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cameoes by everyone, Canon divergent from The Great Game, Cigarettes, Deficencies, Delirium, Fever, Fickle thought patterns, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Guns, John Watson is a Saint, M/M, Romance, TJLC, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 04:36:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8735125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amuse_me/pseuds/Amuse_me
Summary: "John's face came into focus. His eyes wide with worry. Brown and blue at the same time. Heterochromia, quite like him in that aspect."





	1. Sherlock

  
Sherlock was standing by window watching John storm off. John Watson, a man who believed that a walk could cure a person of everything. It did keep him in excellent shape.

The thing about watching a short person walk was the surety of every step that person took, the definition of the legs, the rippling of the back. Or maybe that was just John.

Sherlock had been smoking again. John found him on the couch barely visible through the astonishing amount of cigarette smoke that had accumulated and it oh dear god why couldn't that man just open the windows? Sherlock had to sit through a tedious lecture that involved the risks of smoking which he chose to answer by blowing out smoke in front of his flatmate's face.

The smoke had dissipated somewhat and there were no more cigarettes left. How _dull_.

He could always call Billy and ask for more but that would be tedious and John might move out the next time he engulfs the room in smoke. But it was all his fault.

It had started after that night by pool with Moriarty. The relationship between the detective and the doctor became more... Tactile.

God it was driving him mad.

John couldn't reach that shelf? Oh Sherlock would get it for him, _just budge over John_. And John would budge, just a bit and there would be only an inch between their torsos, John's breathing tickling his clavicle under the slight protection of his ratty t-shirt and robe.

Sherlock didn't know how to use a normal razor? (" _I prefer electric, John!")_  Captain Watson to the rescue, gently caressing his neck and carefully ensuring that Sherlock doesn't nick himself. Sherlock would later attribute the fogging of the bathroom mirror due to the shower. But John never showered with hot water.

They made a fish stew once. Sherlock given the duty of putting stuff in the pan. Despite the number of times he and John nearly collided, the dish turned out to be edible. Delicious, really. John did flush a healthy colour when complimented.

Mrs. Hudson was not their housekeeper. She was their minder.

"Boys I hope you don't have dirty laundry lying about!"

She seemed to appreciate the role of teamwork in every aspect of life. Sherlock alone couldn't carry that basket! John simply had to help him. John and Sherlock had to go together to pick her up from her sister's. John didn't have a driver's licence. It would be impractical but Mrs Hudson believed in the idea of " _the more the merrier_ ".

They were a good team, Sherlock had to admit as the outline of John's figure disappeared completely.

Molly wouldn't be too busy at the morgue now would she? He could work on the effects of specific poisons on muscles. Maybe a nice leg. Molly never did refuse him.

But the lethargy was settling upon him again. John said it was because he didn't eat enough but John was an idiot.

He was a doctor but most doctors focused on fixing the body than the mind. Psychoanalysis was the new form of quackery, he was certain. People usually did things out of simple motives. But then he couldn't quite explain John Watson's motivations.

Addiction to epinephrine was obvious, but his ways of seeking it out, not so much. Whereas most people chose skydiving and eating Indian food with extra spice, John chose to balance a gun in his mouth. He'd seen him do it, when the nightmares were too much.

He'd observed the man carefully load his browning and place it in his mouth after he'd finished thrashing about in his sleep. He looked calm as he gently pushed the muzzle in the warm confines of his mouth and clicked the safety off. His lips moulding around the cold metal as if they were one. Seconds would pass and John would sit still in his pyjamas, hand firmly forcing the gun in his mouth.

Sherlock would see it from the doorway as John Watson always slept with the door slightly ajar. That's what would alert him of his nightmares.

Then the safety would be clicked back on and the gun would be back in his bedside drawer, the ex army medic falling asleep.

Sherlock felt weak. His eyes were unable to focus and his breathing was too loud. He couldn't reach his mind palace, retreat and see what's wrong...

" **You bloody idiot!** "

John's face came into focus. His eyes wide with worry. Brown and blue at the same time. Heterochromia, quite like him in that aspect.

His eyes indicated lack of sleep which did not match with the last time he'd seen him. The jumper was the same, but now stained with what looked like ketchup and cream. Mrs Hudson's sandwiches and scones. He could eat a scone right now

Sherlock opened his mouth to find that it was rather dry and smelled sour. A glass of water materialised in front of his lips. He drank, choking slightly. It was too hot, suddenly, too hot to focus.

Sherlock was standing by window watching John storm off. A sense of déjà vu attacked him.

His surroundings were too out of focus.

There John was, kneeling by the sofa, gun jammed in his mouth, eyes staring up at Sherlock.

"Will you take the case Sherlock?" Lestrade was saying from his right, his salt and pepper hair flickering.

The file in front of him read " **J. H. Watson** ". The police sirens were ringing in the background. The blue sticker on it indicated that the case was declared a homicide. A shot to the-

"Here's the heart you asked for Sherlock, fresh!" Molly Hooper was grinning up at him, her slight frame covered by a labcoat.

"Brother mine, I must advise you to wake up." Mycroft had gained weight and was wearing the same tie as Lestrade. Sherlock turned around. He had been scratching his head with a gun in his hand, hair mussed up.

Daylight hit pale irises as Sherlock flickered to conciousness.

They were in his room, he could tell by the periodic table hanging. John was curled up in a chair brought from the kitchen. A paper on his bedside table indicated that he had severe fever and delirium. He was also severely deficient in vitamin B12 and only just short of being anaemic.

John shifted in his chair, no sign of a gun anywhere and Sherlock smiled, settling back into the sweat-damp pillows.


	2. Chapter 2

The absence of his t-shirt was the next thing on Sherlock's mind.

He was, by no standards embarrassed by his apparent half nudity, only curious as to how the mechanism of removing clothing on a thing that closely resembled a corpse -an uncomfortably warm corpse, mind- worked. The stench of sweat and bad breath made falling asleep an impossible task. John was still asleep, a cloth in his hand indicating valiant attempts to bring the fever down.

He could let him sleep. He looked so peaceful, so serene. His fever dazed mind imagined hands caressing his body. John's hands. That would be... Good. _Very_ good.

His eyelids had started twitching. Ah the dreaded REM phase. What did a man like John Watson dream of. That was answered soon as John 's face contorted.

Should he pretend to sleep, allow John to wake up and search frantically for his gun? That would calm him down. But the idea of someone placing a gun so near a simple mind like John's pained him.

Maybe he should call out to him. The sleeping and the dead only differed in their reaction to stimuli.

" _J-oh-n! J-ohn!_ "

  
His throat couldn't form the words properly, they kept getting stuck at places producing an odd sound which would probably not help the situation. Shaking a man with PTSD awake was not advised. He supposed he must wait until John wakes up. He always does wake up.

And so the first scream tears out into the restless silence. John looks as if he's been lit on fire over and over, his body twisting uncomfortably in the chair. Sherlock finds his eyes getting wet at the edges. It was horrible seeing it so clearly. He supposes all men dream. But are all meant to be experienced?

The second scream is halfway out of his mouth that John 's eyes snap open. Sherlock shifts himself up, his body complaining and sheets clinging onto his shoulders. He shivers as the cold head of his bed touches the nape of his neck.

John Watson looks like a terrified beast set loose. His hand darts about to reach an invisible drawer for a gun that's lying upstairs.

" _J-oh-n!_ " Sherlock gasps.  
  
John pauses, suddenly coming back to reality. His brown-blue eyes fixed upon Sherlock; the morning light making them appear more blue than brown. His hair looks good mussed up. _That must be the fever talking_ , muses Sherlock. He would like to mess John's hair up. _Definitely_ the fever talking.

"Are you awake?"

 _Is John an idiot?_ Sherlock conveys the expression through a careful arch of his eyebrow.

"Yeah, yeah alright. Lie back down you twat!"

Sherlock shook his head. He couldn't just lie down without-

"What is it? What d'you need?"

Sherlock whimpered, hand reaching out to grab John's silly jumper. He needed John by his side. Not just now, most days. All the time. On his bed, on the kitchen table, maybe in the shower (saving the water costs had never felt more important). Telling the man his intentions was a breach into his apparent heterosexual ideal existence.

He supposes sex could be a part of it. If John will be willing enough to, that is.

He needed affection. That was neither rational nor productive and awfully sentimental but it helped in meeting the needs of his male-inclined transport so it had to stay.

John stared at him expectantly, the lines forming on his forehead rather endearing. Maybe is he asked _nicely_ enough...

Attempting to yank John Watson into the bed was successful seeing that the person being pulled complied, taking off his ridiculous jumper and shoes.

"You git," John murmured, raising his hand to Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock violently shivered, John's hand far too cold. His transport didn't feel capable of staying upright and a second later he was sinking into the pillow. John's face hovered in front of him, hazy due to the eyes being blurred with tears (which held no sentimental value unless one could put in sentiment into fevers). John touched his palm to Sherlock's forehead again. Sherlock leaned into him, whining as John tried to ease his palm away.

And then John was leaning forward, his eyes close enough for Sherlock to count the eyelashes.

A feather light brush of lips on his face felt like a panacea. And then John's hand was in his. Sweaty palms fused together.

He stared up at his... John, lips curling into an involuntary smirk.


End file.
